


Miscommunication.

by audreyneedsacase



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, Prompt Fill, THIS IS SO OCC I'M SORRY., aghhhh, don't hit me, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyneedsacase/pseuds/audreyneedsacase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The men must learn how to communicate, in order to move on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miscommunication.

**Author's Note:**

> Asked by [mystradeiscanon](http://mystradeiscanon.tumblr.com) on tumblr - 
> 
> i would love you forever if any of you make a little drabble about lestrade trying to avoid sex with mycroft ‘cause he wants this to be special and he’s scared to screw everything up while mycroft thinks greg don’t want to have sex with him…PLEASE!?!?…
> 
> Also, I’m a terrible smut writer. Forgive me. Also, wasn't this supposed to be a 'little drabble'? I'M SORRY. I GOT CARRIED AWAYYYY.  
> 

_"Mon dieu, Gregory,"_ the man said to his date. Silver hair glinted in the moonlight, as its owner peppered the taller man with kisses along the jawline. The flat was most assuredly safe from any passersby's eyes, Greg’s lips were soft and warm, and Mycroft could do little else than to bare his neck more, to receive _more._ He finally got the door of his flat open, and practically pushed the DI inside. Mycroft took care not to rip any buttons - it _was_ perfectly tailored, after all - but still got his coat off in record time. His deft hands helped to remove Greg's leather jacket (while technically not nice enough for the restaurant they had just left, it had cost the DI a fortune, and besides, it accentuated the curvature of biceps just so _deliciously_ ) and pull him over to the sofa. He twisted them around, so he was beneath the other man, settled Greg on top of him.  
  
Greg was surprisingly vocal, something that never ceased to arouse Mycroft. “GOD...” he had whispered, running his hands over Mycroft’s chest. The ginger sucked at the sensitive spot behind Greg’s ear and the DI made a low, guttural moan that went straight to Mycroft’s core. Instinctively, he brought the hands that had been rubbing up and down Greg’s back and took them lower, lower.  
  
In a flash, Greg was up and off Mycroft, panting and pupils dark, so obviously aroused yet so far away that Mycroft physically hurt. “Come here!” He called, trying to make the mood playful again, tugging at his wrists.  
  
Greg pulled away, muttering, “I have to go.” He found his jacket on the other side of the room and put it on.  
  
Vulnerable and confused, all Mycroft could do was whimper (pathetic, he thought later, in slight horror) “Gregory...” as the other man left the flat, shutting the door quietly behind him.  
  
Mycroft sat still on the sofa for indulgent minutes, his mind reeling. He replayed over the situation in his head, dissecting details. Greg was a healthy man, had no religious affiliations, and had no real reason to abstain from sex. Was it because of his ex-wife - was he still too raw from the divorce to pursue intimacy so soon? No, the separation had taken place months ago, and he and his wife hadn’t slept together for some time before that. And, if the CCTV was anything to go by (which it was) Greg had spent the night at a few womens’ homes after his dates with them. Besides, Greg had been enjoying himself, had initiated contact.  
  
So, Mycroft concluded that Greg did not have qualms with having sex. What were the other variables?  
  
Was it the flat? True, Greg hadn’t been in Mycroft’s posh abode before, was it off putting to the DI? He wouldn’t think so - Greg had barely noticed the surroundings when he was being led inside. Perhaps it was the timing, did Greg feel ill? Surely not, Mycroft had a keen sense of smell (while most poison was odourless, not all of them were, so he had versed himself with the metallic bitter sense of sure death just in case) and had not detected anything wrong with Greg’s _saumon béchamel_ or his breath. What then?  
  
The only variable remaining: Mycroft. 

And of _course_ that’s what it was. Greg’s advances had been in Mycroft’s car, under the cover of nightfall; the dark had obscured Greg’s vision of the ginger. While Greg was an open bisexual, his preferences leaned heavily towards pretty women and men. Something Mycroft most decidedly was _not_. 

His ginger hair was coiffed to impress foreign dignitaries, but was not helpful on people his own age. He had freckles that he attempted to cover up with light powder every morning, but it surely came off during the long day, exposing the juvenile blemishes for his date to see. Mycroft looked down at himself, his shirt half open. His worst flaw was full with a good meal, and obviously so. Disgusted by his appearance and tactlessness at the date, Mycroft composed himself, and went to his study to get some work done.

He was reminded of his erection, but he didn’t touch himself. The moment was gone.  
  
\----  
  
Greg sat in the back of the cab, feeling absolutely horrible. If there was one thing the DI was not, it was a fucking _coward._ Yet, here he was, going back to his flat with the remnants of a hard-on, and his tail between his legs.  
  
Jesus Christ, he needed to pull himself together.  
  
He and Mycroft had gone a total of six dates so far, _six._ That was three more than the average woman needed in order to put out. And Mycroft was more than ready to take that step, as it were. Greg thought back on the government official’s utter _want_ for Greg, and that just made him even guiltier. 

Greg had it under good authority that he was proficient under the sheets. A generous lover, he had been called, and one that knew how to use the tools he had been equipped with (and it was also been said that those tools were larger than average, so that's something). Greg usually had no problem with taking someone to bed, eager to please his partner as well as getting some much-need friction and release for the night. However, when around Mycroft, Greg felt a performance anxiety he hadn't felt since he was sixteen, losing his virginity in a parents' bedroom during a party, so intoxicated he barely remembered what happened (he never spoke to the girl again - he wondered if the memory of vomiting on her was something he had made it up, or an actual occurrence. Knowing his younger self, he imagined it was the latter).

Mycroft, though. What was it about the man that sent Greg into tizzy, stammering like a fool, and paranoid about doing the wrong thing? He wasn't some delicate butterfly; bad sex wouldn't hurt their relationship, Mycroft must have had bad sex before. But, at his core, Greg was somewhat of a perfectionist. He worried that, perhaps, if their first time _was_ less than stellar, that Mycroft would, _God_ how he didn't want to think of it, move on. There must be loads of others that would love to get their hands on that immaculate three-piece suit, to see the forbidden freckled skin of the human underneath. Plenty of people that wanted to see this man of power writhing and moaning, utterly broken and open. And who was Greg to think that he had something to offer that these unknown suitors didn't?

Despite Greg's incessant fears, he knew Mycroft needed some answers. He resolved to talk to him in the morning.

\---

Mycroft's door opened and he looked up to see his assistant Lavinia, as she had been calling herself the past week, enter. She didn't look up from her Blackberry to tell him, "There's someone here to see you."

Mycroft sighed. The prime minister of Thailand had a habit of always showing up early; she held fast to some proverb or another, stating that punctuality was a crucial attribute for a well-rounded person. While Mycroft tended to agree that promptness was needed, he still didn't understand why she would be in his office thirty minutes before their scheduled meeting was to begin. "Bring her in," he said with disdain.

"Him," Lavinia corrected under her breath, but said no more, leaving the room to bring in the guest.

Mycroft cleared away some of his paperwork - the Thai had no reason or permission to see what he was working on - and put on a perfect smiling mask to meet her, only to have it fall when Gregory Lestrade walked in.

Greg shut the door, and they stared at each other for a few moments before Mycroft (being involved in politics had taught him to get over surprise quickly) settled back in his chair and raised a perfect eyebrow. "May I help you, Gregory?"

Greg looked pained at Mycroft's formal tone but said nothing. "I need to talk to you."

"I'm working, can't this wait until later?" To prove a point, Mycroft took out what he was working on earlier, the paperwork for the coup of the Mali government. While it was confidential, the entire contract was written in French, and Lestrade could not read it.

"No, it can't." Greg placed his hands on the seat that was across from Mycroft's desk, leaned forward. He was taking deep breaths, and not looking at the ginger. He finally worked up the courage to say, "I'm sorry."'

Mycroft bristled a tad at the apology but maintained his façade. "No apology needed, I assure you. I-"

"Shut the hell up and _listen_ to me," Greg said in a commanding tone, one that shut Mycroft's jaw with an audible _click_. "Last night, I..." He started.

Mycroft cleared his head and throat. "I know." He was ninety percent sure he didn't want to hear what Greg had to say, he was sure he couldn't bear to end things like this, to listen to Greg telling him why this relationship wouldn't work out, how Mycroft didn't live up to expectations.

"No, you don't." Greg continued, in a frightfully demanding voice that Mycroft was loath to say he rather enjoyed. "I was scared, and I shouldn't have taken that out on you. I'm sorry." Scared? Not the word Mycroft had expected. "I should have taken your feelings into account and not have stormed out of your flat like that."

Mycroft weakly asked the question he already knew the answer to, "But... what were you scared of?"

Greg ran his hand through his short hair. "I don't know. I-" he searched for the right words. "I didn't want to ruin this."

Mycroft leaned forward in his chair to better see the DI's face, which was still facing the ground like a scared schoolboy. "Ruin? How could you ruin it?"

Greg finally looked up and gave a Mycroft a wry smile. "You're a bit intimidating, if you haven't noticed."

There it was, what Mycroft had been expecting to hear; what, did he think Mycroft was going to _crush_ him, or something? Before he could get a word in, Greg was adding, "You... I only get this one chance with you, and I don't want to lose it."

Mycroft sat in complete astonishment. Was Greg - No, surely he wasn't, not to _Mycroft_. "I-"

"I promise that - that if I'm not good enough, we can walk away from this, I understand. We can try it once, I promise that there won't be any hard feelings, we can go back..." Greg was rambling now, squirming under pressure.

Mycroft had not foreseen this at all, this was not following the plan. His mind went into red alert, pulling a Plan B that he had not arranged, so sure was he of Greg's imminent rejection of Mycroft. He wasn't sure of what to do now, and he mind went into overdrive. "Gregory, I'm... I'm not sure - That's," he stammered.

Greg went around to the other side to the desk, beside Mycroft. He placed his hands on a soft, rarely-used hand of the government official. "I just want you to be happy, Mycroft."

Mycroft didn't quite know what to what to make of that.

Greg was expecting an answer. "What do you want, Mycroft?" 

\---

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Greg said carefully, hoping for some sort of answer that would make this turn out well for him, for both of them. 

Mycroft considered his reply for a few moments. "I _am_ happy."

"But - " 

"I am happy with you, with us, with this. And you could never _ruin_ it." Mycroft was shaking his head emphatically. In a bout of courage, he pulled the DI into his lap, and kissed his forehead, and held him and that was perfect.

"Maybe we should try." Greg said hopefully.

"Yes, of course, tonight. I'll pick you up at eight." He gently pushed Greg off him. "As much as I want you here, I have an appointment."

"Oh! Right, I'll, um. I'll see you then." Greg, flustered, leaving the room. 

"And Gregory?" Mycroft called. "I'm looking forward to it."


End file.
